I was on my way to a party in Jerusalem last night and walked through the Qalandia checkpoint for the first time.  Many Palestinians, including several of my students, experience this process every day; the best way I can describe it is like going through airport security with hostile employees. The place is full of metal turnstiles and narrow pathways that truly look more appropriate for herding cattle than for containing human beings. I stood there in a crush of people wanting to get through as quickly as possible. I placed my bag on the conveyor belt and walked through the metal detector. It buzzed. I took off my coat, thinking it was the zippers or something and walked through again. It buzzed. I looked at the young, female soldier behind the glass partition and shrugged my shoulders. She took a break from yelling at the crowd in Hebrew over the PA system and said to me sternly “Go back.” A man and two women standing behind me pointed to my earrings. The jewelry! Of course! So I took off my earrings, rings, new silver necklace and finally no buzz. It was really nerve wracking. I had no idea what I was supposed to do and hearing the soldiers yell at us, watching a Palestinian man protest loudly and then seeing the soldiers go back to laughing and joking with each other was disturbing. They were so young and they looked bored.  Mind you, I didn’t have to walk through Qalandia. I could’ve called a private taxi and paid about 120 ILS or about 30$ each way. But I told myself it was something I had to learn to do, to experience and now that I know I have a choice, I might not go through it again. Yes, as an American I have a choice, I have privilege, I can afford an expensive taxi. I can do things and go places that many of my Palestinian friends cannot.  Most need a permit to travel to Jerusalem. Jerusalem is about 8 miles away from Ramallah; one friend told me he has not been there in 12 years. I could feel guilty about this, but both I and a young American woman I met at the party agreed that this was a wasted emotion that benefits no one and only makes us feel bad. She told me that when she went to Tel-Aviv she didn’t look at the sea, so she could feel what her Palestinian friends feel, but we can’t deny our privilege; in fact, we must acknowledge it.

Check out the following link for pictures of Qalandia and an article about one of the few times Palestinians were able to view the sea. http://www.ideastream.org/news/npr/159998746

I wouldn’t consider myself very physically affectionate. I like to hug and kiss family and close friends, but I’m not the kind of person who’s going to kiss you hello or goodbye or give you a huge hug five minutes after we’ve met. However, I’m starting to rethink this practice after 3 months of living in Palestine. Men hold hands or link arms while walking down the street (unlike in the States, this does not indicate a romantic relationship) and women may kiss a friend they haven’t seen in a while or one they just saw the day before.

Last week, I had a great day hanging out with a colleague: she invited me to her house for lunch and even took me out for nargileh afterwards. We talked for a long time. She was so warm and such a good listener; I can tell she is going to be one of my allies. So yesterday was the faculty meeting and I hadn’t seen my friend all week. I walked up to her while she was speaking to another colleague, said hello and gave her a quick pat on the back. But then she gave me a kind of strange look and there was an awkward couple of seconds that I couldn’t put my finger on. Later, I realized “Duh, she was expecting you to give her a kiss on the cheek!”

And now I feel like Jerry Seinfeld perseverating on something very banal: What should I do next time? Should I go in for the hug or will she be expecting a kiss on the cheek? Can I ever do the back rub/pat again or is that completely off the table?

Maybe living here will have me giving out hugs and kisses more liberally. Or maybe it won’t. We shall see.

I got off the bus in Jerusalem feeling lost, literally and symbolically. I didn’t know where I was going and I felt silly walking around in circles so instead of exploring, I decided to just take off toward the main road near the bus station and take a taxi straight to the hotel.  As I stood on the sidewalk, a young Orthodox Jewish man walked up and stopped a few feet ahead of me. A taxi came and I flagged it down, but it stopped right in front of him. I thought, “Is this guy stealing my taxi?” But I didn’t have to worry; the man bent down and looked in the window, but did not get in the car. When I got in and saw that the driver was Arab, I immediately knew why the young man did not get in the car. I wondered what he was so scared of.

The next day, I decided to join a tour to the Old City. The group consisted of a couple from Massachusetts, a couple from the Netherlands, our leader, Josef, and me.  After touring various religious sites like the Pater Nostre and Mount of Olives, we finally entered the Old City through the Lions’ Gate.  By then we were tired and hungry, so we stopped next to the toilets adjacent to a playground. I was the only one who had to go, so the rest waited for me outside. When I came out, I saw our guide, Josef, yelling at two little Palestinian boys. They were climbing on a railing next to a small tree. The ground was strewn with garbage, including lots of broken glass bottles. One of the boys—he looked about 3 or 4—suddenly fell.  He was screaming. The cut must have been bad; big, fat drops of blood fell quickly from his hand.  Suddenly a man (Brother? Cousin?)  came and scooped him up and carried him away. The couple from Boston watched the whole incident almost stone faced; their lack of reaction confused me. Then the wife said “I was standing under the tree and felt something wet falling on me. Those two boys were spitting on me and saying ‘Jew, Jew.’”  I realized then what their silence meant: “serves him right.” Perhaps punishment is swift in one of the holiest places on earth.

Little boys fighting, violently kicking and hitting each other until someone tells them to knock it off—little boys playing with fake handguns—toy semi-automatic rifles for sale during the Eid holiday—little boys sent into the street alone to sell candy or other wares—little boys riding donkeys bareback galloping down the street in the middle of heavy, Old City traffic. Palestinian boys grow up quickly.